The Work and the Glory (334 page)

Finally feeling like things were under control, the men began to straggle back to the main compartment. They held on to the beams or clung to tables. They were sick, and numbed by the misery around them and their own living hell. Brigham and Heber and John Taylor made their way over to the center beam, and then Brigham raised one hand. “Brethren,” he shouted, “we cannot bear much more of this. Our people cannot bear much more of this.”

There were only grim nods. No one was going to dispute that. “We must petition the Lord for help. I would like my brethren of the Twelve to gather around me as best they can, and then we shall unitedly pray.”

Will awoke with a start. The first thing he was aware of was that it was quiet, with only the barest of creaking from the ship’s timbers. Next he realized the ship was barely rolling. There was the gentle up-and-down motion that was part of ship life even on the calmest of seas, but that was all. Then, as he turned his head, he saw that the hatch was open and bright sunlight and fresh air were streaming into the hold. He breathed deeply, savoring the smell of the sea like it was medicine to the soul. He swung his legs over, careful not to disturb Matthew and Derek below him, and dropped to the deck. He pulled on his shirt and headed for the ladder.

It was an absolutely breathtaking day, the air clear as a crystal goblet, the sun bright and warm and welcome. He looked up, hardly believing his eyes. The sails were full, and pulling the ship through the water at a steady clip. He had to look twice at the sun and calculate the direction before he realized that the wind was blowing straight out of the east. The contrary winds were gone. He shook his head in wonder, remembering Brigham’s prayer of the night before.

There was no one about except for crew. The passengers were all still down in their bunks, finally able to sleep and rest. Breathing deeply, Will started forward, reveling in the day. As he came around the mainmast, he stopped in surprise. There was a figure at the railing up ahead, right at the bow of the ship. Then Will smiled, not really surprised. It was Brigham Young.

“Good morning,” Will said as he came up.

“Oh,” Brigham said, turning around, “it’s you. Good morning, Will.”

Looking around at the calm seas, Will gave a little shake of his head. “Can you believe this day?”

Brigham laughed softly. His face looked tired and haggard and he hadn’t shaved for several days, but his eyes were bright and alert and invigorated. “Actually, no I can’t. That’s why I came out. I had to see it for myself.” There was a pause. “And to give thanks.”

Will only nodded. He was wrestling with that himself. It was not common for a storm to blow itself out so quickly, but it wasn’t totally unusual either. But to have it happen so quickly after the prayer? He would have to think about that.

“Thank you for your help last night, Will. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

“It was nothing. I’m just glad we got it under control.”

“Very glad,” Brigham said fervently.

Turning and leaning on the rail, Will looked down to where the prow split the sea, turning it green and white as it shoved it aside. “The sea is not always such a difficult lady,” he said. “Sometimes she can be quite decent to you.”

“Maybe so,” Brigham muttered, “but as for me, I’d be downright pleased if I never had to make her acquaintance again.”

Will laughed. “Really, she’s not that bad. You can come to love her.”

“
You
can come to love her,” he retorted. “I’ll keep my affection for something a little more reliable.”

That really didn’t surprise Will. There were many who hated the sea. Some—including a few sailors he knew—merely tolerated and endured her. Only a few really loved her, and at this moment, Will realized again that he was one of them.

Brigham turned around and leaned back against the rail. “Will?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Matthew told me about your desire to know if the Church is true.”

Will only nodded. Matthew had asked if Will minded if he told others, and Will had said no because it gave him the opportunity to ask some of the questions he wanted to ask.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” said Brigham.

“Not if you don’t mind if I ask you some back.”

“Fair enough.” Brigham tipped his head back, letting the wind ruffle the reddish hair, and letting the sun fall full onto his face. “How long have you been trying to find out if the Church is true?”

“Since I left Nauvoo. That was the last part of January.”

“And?”

There was a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know. I’ve learned a lot. My feelings have changed significantly. But . . .” He didn’t finish. He just blew out his breath.

“Do you think the Lord answered our prayers this morning?” The Apostle’s arm swept out, encompassing the sea and sky.

Will turned and looked out across the ocean’s breadth. “It sure seems like it,” he finally said.

“It sure does.”

“And yet . . .”

Brigham smiled, understanding. “And yet it could just be a happy coincidence.”

“Yes. So, how do you know? How can you tell if it’s real or not?”

“Well, let me tell you about a man I once knew who had some of those very questions.” He turned to face forward again, gazing out without looking at Will. “This was years ago, in upstate New York. The young man I’m thinking of was a plain man, a simple man. He was religious in his heart, but frustrated by what he found around him.”

Will was watching him closely, immediately guessing that he was talking about himself.

“He got disgusted with what he called the long-faced, pious worshippers who bowed their heads on Sunday and acted like heathens every other day. For example, he knew one man and woman, both good churchgoers, who asked their minister if there would be two different banquet tables set in heaven; they were afraid they might have to eat with their hired hands up there. This disillusioned man also knew ministers who would not help a hungry man in need. And then there were the Bible-pounding preachers who were as sour as pickles left too long in the brine.”

Will was chuckling. “Yeah, I’ve known one or two like that.”

“So eventually, this man just kind of withdrew, determined that he would try and live as the Savior asked, yet give up on regular religion.”

“But?”

Brigham looked a little startled by the question. He had slipped away into his memories. “What?”

Will laughed. “Here you are, an Apostle of Christ. Something must have happened to you.”

There was that slow grin again. “Yes, the young man was me, all right.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, Samuel Smith, Joseph’s younger brother, came around with some copies of the Book of Mormon. A brother and a sister of mine got hold of copies and started reading them. They got me to reading it too.”

This was getting to the heart of what Will wanted to know. “So when you read it, did you know it was true?”

Brigham thought about that. “Yes and no.”

Will frowned, and that made Brigham smile. “Well, that’s really the best answer. Let me explain. From the very first I felt there was something to Mormonism and said as much to Phineas—that’s my brother. He agreed. But at the same time, I wasn’t willing to just accept it at face value. You’ve got to remember, I was this hardheaded New Englander. I had seen too much of sham religion. I had heard too many sermons that didn’t satisfy.”

“I see.” Will did see, and it made him feel better. That wasn’t a bad way to answer his own question. Will Steed, do you believe the Church is true? Yes and no.

“When I undertook to sound out the doctrine of Mormonism,” Brigham continued, “I supposed I could handle it as I had the doctrines of the other churches. But instead, I found it completely different. I liked the way the Book of Mormon seemed like scripture, and answered some of the questions the Bible didn’t. I liked the idea that here was a religion that could embrace truth wherever it was found. I liked the way it answered some of the vexing questions I had. But what really surprised me the most was that I found it impossible to take hold of either end of Mormonism. It went from eternity, passed through time, and went back into eternity again.”

Will was suddenly impatient, not sure what all that meant. “But eventually you came to know it was true, right? How did that happen? I keep asking and I just can’t seem to get an answer one way or another.”

Now Brigham turned to face him fully. “Will, let me tell you something. Some people are natural believers. There’s something down deep inside that’s kind of like a lodestone. They just know and they never seem to doubt. Your Grandmother Steed is one of those. So is your Uncle Nathan.”

“And Derek. He said he and Peter knew the Book of Mormon was true almost the first moment they started reading it.”

“Yes, Derek is another one. What a great soul he has. But others aren’t like that. Others are more stubborn or hardheaded or more inclined to want to study things out. Whatever the reason, it just doesn’t come so easily to them. And I was one of those.”

“You were?”

There was a firm nod. “Will, I was given my brother Phineas’s copy of the Book of Mormon to read sometime in the late spring or early summer of 1830. Do you know when I finally decided that Mormonism was true?”

“No, when?”

“I was baptized on April fourteenth, 1832.”

Will just stared at him.

“That’s right—1832! Two full years later! That’s what it took me. I studied, I pondered, I watched and waited. I wanted to see if the Mormons lived up to what they taught. Two full years, Will. You think about that.”

He was reeling a little. “So if I don’t know right away, it doesn’t mean . . .” He let it trail off, feeling a great sense of relief.

There was a soft chuckle from Brigham now. “No, it doesn’t mean it’s not true. And if you still don’t know by the time we get back to Nauvoo, you’re just going to have to tell that sweet Jenny Pottsworth to be patient. With us hardheads, sometimes it just takes the Lord a little longer.”

“And what if I decide it’s not true?” Will asked slowly. “Pa says I’m more like him, that down deep we don’t really need outward religion.”

“Will, your pa is a good man. His generosity and goodness with the Saints is beyond what many of our own people would do. But take it from someone who once thought that same way. I had decided I would just go my own way and forget about trying to be happy in this church or that. But I wasn’t happy, Will. Not truly happy.” He laughed suddenly. “You know what they used to say about my father?”

“What?”

“They used to say that no one ever saw John Young smile until he was baptized, and then he laughed for six months to think that he had finally found the truth. Once I made up my mind, that’s kind of how I felt too. That’s something to think about, Will. You can go your own way and be happy, but you’ll never know true joy without the gospel.”

The
Rochester,
one of the fastest ships plying the Atlantic, sailed from Liverpool on April twenty-first with seven Apostles aboard. Parley Pratt, his wife and children with him now, stayed on in England to supervise the work and continue to publish the
Millennial Star.
Orson Hyde continued on alone toward the land of Palestine. The rest headed home.

Due to the contrary winds and the terrible storm, it took a full month to make the crossing, and they did not arrive in New York until May twentieth. The following Sunday, the Apostles preached to a large congregation of Saints in the city, reporting on their missions, and then made plans for heading west. As they had when they came from Illinois to New York, they split and went their separate ways. Some stayed in the East for a time to visit family or preach. Others started back immediately.

On June fourth, Elders Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, and John Taylor, in company with Derek Ingalls and Will and Matthew Steed, set their faces westward. Traveling by canal boat, by steamer, by stage, and on foot, they covered the eight hundred miles in twenty-seven days.

It was past five o’clock in the afternoon when six tired and dusty travelers stopped at that point on the road between Quincy and Nauvoo where the trees opened up and they could see upriver for some distance. About two miles north of them, the river took a long, sweeping turn to the west. They could see the dark mass of land that had once been the swamps of Commerce. It was July first, 1841. For Derek Ingalls and John Taylor it had been two years less a month and a week since they had stood on this spot for one last look at their homes. For Brigham, Heber, and Matthew it had been twenty-one and a half months since they had walked south past this spot. Only Will had been along this route within the year.

For several moments they stood there, no one speaking, each one lost in his own thoughts and swept up in anticipation of sweet reunion. Then Brigham straightened, adjusting the rope slung over his shoulder which held his traveling bag. He cleared his throat. “Brethren, let’s go home.”

Over the past several months, it had become customary, unless there was rain, for the Steeds to gather together after supper at Benjamin and Mary Ann’s cabin two or three times each week. They had benches and chairs and the breadth of the porch. They would sit in the cool of the evening, visiting quietly while the children played around them. Often the women brought sewing with them to work on while they talked—their current project was sewing shirts and pants for two families who had recently come from the East with nothing but what they carried.

As dusk drew closer, Benjamin would take out the Bible or the Book of Mormon. The children would stop their games and gather in around while Benjamin read a chapter or two, stopping from time to time to ask questions or discuss what this or that gospel principle meant in actual living. When he was finished, someone was called upon to offer prayer and give thanks for another day of life and daily bread.

At first, it was awkward for Joshua. He would come to the first part, sitting around to talk, but then he would quietly leave when they reached the point of scripture reading. Or sometimes he just found some reason to stay later at the freight yard. But more recently he had begun to stay, standing back, never participating in the discussions, but not leaving, and seeming not to mind at all.